Authors: Adam Baker

Outpost (13 page)

'Use
them to open that space capsule?'

'Yeah.'

'After
you fish those Raven guys out of the sea.'

'Something
like that.'

'You
run this rig. You realise that, right? We'd be lost without you.'

'Is
that what they say?'

'The
guys need a hero.'

'Let
me show you something.'

Ghost
led Jane down a corridor to a wide storeroom. A winch bolted to girders in the
vaulted ceiling. A huge trapdoor in the floor.

'They
used this room for hauling equipment aboard. The supply ship sails between the
legs of the refinery. The floor opens and you can winch stuff aboard. Cargo
containers full of food, fuel, stuff like that.'

There
were three rows of oil drums welded to scaffolding poles. Ghost pulled a roll
of paper from behind a locker and spread it on a table. Plans for a boat.

'A
sloop, like a round-the-world yacht. It's a reliable design.'

'Why
oil drums?'

'Ballasted
keel. Stable. Unlikely to capsize.'

'It's
going to be huge.'

'Even
for a two-man vessel you have to build big. You need to carry supplies to last
weeks. Fresh water alone could weigh half a tonne.'

'Two-man?'

'I
enjoy your company. Is that a problem?'

Nikki
went looking for Nail.

'Dive
room,' grunted Ivan. 'Man get his head together.'

C
deck. Dark, frozen passageways. Nikki was spooked. She paused, now and again,
to shine her torch down the passageway behind her. She felt stalked.

She
entered the dive store. The walls were hung with tanks, regulators, wetsuits
and fins. A Tilley lamp sat on a table.

A
knife blurred past her face and slammed into a locker. The titanium blade
punched hilt-deep into the door. The door was peppered with slit-holes. Target
practice.

'What
the fuck do you want?' asked Nail. Metal shrieked as he jerked the serrated
blade from the locker door.

'Ghost
is building a boat.'

'What
kind of boat?'

'Some
kind of crude yacht. He's making it out of oil drums. He's making it in
secret.'

'Why
are you telling me?'

'Everyone
on this rig is going to die. They're passive. Cattle. You and I are different.
Survivors.'

'One
scumbag to another.'

'You
know what I'm saying. I'm not going to pretend I like you. But together we can
make it home.'

'Want
to shake on it?'

'Fuck
yourself.'

'How
far has he got with his boat?'

'Haven't
seen it. At a guess, early stages.'

'I
can't picture him sailing away on his own. He's not the type.'

'He's
taking a holiday from virtue. He's flirting with the idea of bailing out but, when
the moment comes, he'll pull back.'

'Find
the boat. Monitor his progress. When the job is done, we'll take it.'

'You
and me?'

'They've
got you cooking in the kitchen, yeah?'

'When
Punch isn't around. Rawlins's last effort was a disaster.' 'Meal bars,' said
Nail. 'Punch gives them to shore teams. He has a few boxes at the back of the
storeroom. They give you the keys, right? Get a box. Shove the other boxes
around so it looks like none are missing.'

'Okay.'

'Now
fuck off. I'm busy.'

Nikki
headed down an unlit passageway to the stairs. She heard the knife slam into
metal.

Ghost
and Rawlins got ready to leave. They met at the boat- house. Ghost loaded the
spread-cutter into the zodiac.

Jane
and Punch came to wave farewell.

Boxes
piled on deck.

Rawlins
pulled a tarpaulin aside.

'Is
this the gear?'

'Yeah,'
said Punch. He opened crates. 'Enough plastic explosive to put us on the moon.
Blasting caps, det cord, initiators. And these babies.'

He
handed Rawlins a red canister.

'Ml4
thermite grenades. A couple of dozen. Seemed too good to leave behind.'

'These
guys were seriously tooled up.'

'Reflection
seismology. Make a big bang, then listen to the ground-echo on geophones.'

'I
want this shit off the rig, all right? Ghost. Soon as we get back, I want you
to take this stuff to the bunker and hide it deep.'

'Okay.'

'Our
little secret, yeah? Nobody else need know.'

Sian
prepared dinner. She boiled two kilos of pasta in a saucepan. Nikki grated
cheese.

'I
hope you don't mind me asking,' said Sian. 'Alan and Simon. Your friends from
the island. How well did you know them?' 'We were postgrads from Brighton.' 'So
are you doing okay? Everyone making you welcome?' 'I've been keeping to
myself.'

Nikki
didn't want to talk. She didn't care to know anyone on the rig. She didn't want
to hear their life story. She didn't want to hear their hopes and dreams.

'We
need more sauce. Pass me the storeroom keys.'

Ghost
steered the zodiac. The boat rode low in the water, weighed down by equipment.
Rawlins sat in the prow.

They
dragged the boat ashore, drove stakes into the ground and lashed it down. They
shouldered their gear and set off. A rose twilight turned the snow pink as
blossom.

It
took them twenty minutes to reach the crater. They stood at the lip of the
impact site and looked down at the capsule.

'What
do you think it is?' asked Rawlins.

'I
read somewhere that low-orbit installations are equipped with escape pods. If
anything goes wrong the astronauts can eject. Maybe that's what happened. This
thing was meant to land in the Russian Steppes and send out a distress signal
but the chutes fucked up.'

They
descended to the bottom of the crater. Rawlins erected a dome tent. Ghost
ringed the capsule with tripod lamps.

The
sun set. They worked in the brilliant white illumination of halogen lights. A
tight circle of white brilliance surrounded by endless night.

Ghost
tried the radio.

'Shore
team to Rampart.'

Every
waveband swamped by alien pops and whistles.

'We
need to shut this thing down. It's killing every channel.'

Ghost
hacked at silica heat tiles with the spike end of a fire axe. The tiles were
hexagonal. He chipped away tiles and examined the steel skin beneath.

'Take
a look at this.'

Rawlins
joined him by the capsule. Ghost had exposed a red, T-shaped handle. An inscription
in Cyrillic:

Ф
nac
И
OCTb

B3pblBMa
Ш
ble
Ѳ
onMbl

A
translation beneath:

Danger

Explosive Bolts

'How
do you want to do this?' asked Rawlins.

'You
take cover. I'll crank the lever.'

Rawlins
sheltered behind the capsule.

Ghost
stood to the side of the hatch. He shielded his face, twisted the lever and
snatched his hand away quick as he could. The rectangular hatch blew like a
champagne cork. It flew twenty feet and landed in the snow.

Ghost
shone his flashlight into the capsule. Three seats, one occupant. The body of
an astronaut strapped in front of winking instrumentation.

'You
think that's the transponder?' asked Rawlins, pointing to a bank of switches.

Ghost
held out the radio. A shrill feedback shriek.

'I'm
not going to fuck around,' said Ghost. 'We'll toss a thermite grenade. Fry the
whole thing.'

Rawlins
hauled himself into the cramped cabin. He held a metal seat frame for support.

The
cosmonaut wore a bulky pressure suit. Grey canvas webbing. The gloves, boots
and helmet were attached to the suit by heavy lock rings. Russian insignia on
his chest and sleeve. The suit was connected to a wall-mounted oxygen supply by
a hose.

'Wait.
I want to check him out.'

'Why?'

'Aren't
you curious? CCCP. Old Soviet mission badge. Red fist. I'm guessing military.
How long has this guy been floating around up there? Decades? You weren't even
born when this guy got launched into space. I want to know who he was. I want
to know how he died.'

Rawlins
fumbled at the five-point harness. He took off his gloves but couldn't release
the buckle.

'Pass
me your knife.'

He
sawed through the straps.

'Leave
him,' said Ghost. 'I don't like it. Doesn't feel right. The whole thing.' He took
a red, cylindrical grenade from his coat pocket. 'Call it a cremation.'

'Hold
on. Someone, somewhere, will want to know what happened to this guy.'

Rawlins
tried to twist the helmet free. He couldn't release the lock ring. He gave up.
He pushed the lift-tabs at the corner of the visor. The gold face-plate slid
back.

A
young man's face. Mirror skin, like he was sculpted from chrome.

Eyelids
flicked open. Jet-black eyeballs. A silent snarl. Metal lips, metal teeth.

Rawlins
screamed.

Contamination

Punch
stood in the kitchen storeroom with a clipboard. Stock check. Jane surveyed the
shelves.

'Kidney
beans: six cans. Rhubarb: three cans. Chopped tomatoes: two cases of twelve.'

They
contemplated the dwindling supply of cans and cartons.

'Good
job we keep this place locked,' said Punch. 'If the guys glimpsed how little
food we have left they would panic for sure.'

'Maybe
we should reduce portion size,' said Jane. 'Use rice and pasta for bulk.'

'There
must be someone on board who knows how to fish. Remind me at dinner, when
everyone is in the canteen. I'll ask around.'

They
heard running feet. The squeak of trainers on tiles. Sian stood panting in the
doorway, holding the frame for support.

'There's
a message from Ghost. Rawlins is hurt. Injured or something. They're on their
way back.'

They
descended the leg of the refinery and stood on the ice. Jane scanned the
horizon with binoculars. The zodiac was a black dot approaching fast.

'Jeez,'
said Punch. 'He's pushing it hard.'

Ghost
swerved the boat to a halt, kicking up spray. He killed the engine. Rawlins lay
at the bottom of the zodiac. His right arm was wrapped in a foil insulation
blanket. They dragged him from the boat and laid him on ice surrounding the
refinery leg.

'Don't
touch him,' said Ghost. 'Don't touch his skin.'

They
hauled Rawlins across the ice to the deck of the platform lift. The lift was
bolted to the south leg of the refinery. They laid him on the floor plates.

'Where's
Dr Rye?' asked Ghost.

'Waiting
at the top.'

'Okay.
Punch, you had better stay behind and secure the boat.'

Ghost
jabbed the Up button. The elevator jolted to life.

Jane
leaned over Rawlins. His face was hidden beneath a ski mask and goggles.

'Is
he conscious?' she asked.

'He
moves now and again. He's not talking.'

'What's
wrong with him?'

'Easier
if you see.'

Rye
met them at an airlock. She helped carry Rawlins inside and lay him on the
stretcher buggy.

Convulsions.
Rye wriggled on nitrile gloves. She pulled off Rawlins's mask and goggles. His
eyes rolled. His lips were blue.

'No
skin contact,' warned Ghost. 'No mouth-to-mouth, whatever you do.'